Not A Nightmare…But Worse
by NirCele
Summary: Nightmares? No… A better word would be terrors of the night, for there are some nightmares that come in the daytime, when air is clear and all seems safe. Some things are not meant to be seen by immortal eyes, for they are never forgotten, and cannot be unseen. A birthday gift for LadyLindariel, a great friend! (Complete?)


**Here you are, Lin, thou most fabulous writer and friend! This isn't really a worthy birthday present, but...I hope you enjoy it! The rating and genre might change in the future, if I continue it, but here it is!**

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A late-night cup of tea, that was all he had come for, but Erestor found something quite different when he went through the door of the large kitchen. It was dark, except for the dying flames in the fireplace across the room, and there was someone seated in a chair in front of the hearth.

Erestor knew who it was, of course; there would only be one person here this late, and he could tell from the waves of burnished golden hair that tumbled almost to the floor. Erestor made his way to the counter where he set about making himself a cup of tea. Mixing the herbs and dropping them into the mug, he glanced over at the elf staring into the fire.

"You're up late, Glorfindel."

The Balrog-slayer didn't look at him, gaze caught on the flickering flames. "So are you."

Erestor looked into his cup with only the herbs in it, and glanced at the pot of water that hung over the fire his friend was sitting before. "Would you like some tea?"

Glorfindel shook his head, once, and his fingers flexed. The motion drew Erestor's attention to his hands, and he drew in a sharp breath. There were thick droplets of blood running down his fingers and to the floor, pooling almost-unseen by the hem of the night robe Glorfindel was wearing. Glass spread in an explosive circle about him, like a beaker had been dropped right in front of him, and more than a few of the pieces were spotted with blood.

"Your hands are bleeding," Erestor said with a surprising degree of calmness for his shock a moment ago.

Glorfindel laughed, but it was a kind of desperate laugh. "They are? I'm hadn't noticed."

Erestor set his cup down and went to Glorfindel's side, a small sense of anxiety starting to flow through him. He only wore slippers, so he trod carefully around the shards of glass. Glorfindel's head was bowed; tendrils of luminous hair obstructing his view, but Erestor could catch a glimpse of blue eyes that looked to be gleaming with a sort of fever.

"Are you well?" Erestor said, looking down at Glorfindel's hands again. There were cuts all along the fingers, on the pad of his thumbs, his palms, and a few that gashed deeply into the skin between forefinger and thumb. Blood trickled thickly and rolled in beads off his fingers, landing with a quiet _plop_ next to Erestor's feet. He could feel his slippers becoming wet with the moisture.

"Oh, _I'm_ fine," said Glorfindel, and Erestor could see, through the hair blocking his face, a crazed grin that revealed glinting white teeth.

"I don't think you are," Erestor said cautiously, and to be sure, he took a step backwards. The puddle of blood was growing larger.

"Look around you," Glorfindel whispered, as of some great secret, and Erestor did look around.

In the corners of the room, the shadows cast by the light of the fire, from beneath the tables, and all places in the kitchen, came small, eight-legged creatures. Spiders. Their manacles clicking gleefully, they moved swiftly toward the two by the fire.

Erestor felt no fear, but a strange detachment fell upon him and he turned his head back to Glorfindel. "Where am I? What is this?"

The spiders were gone.

Glorfindel laughed again, and it was a mad laugh. "Where are you? In your dreams, of course. You shouldn't have fallen asleep watching Celebrían – it might have been well-meant, telling Elrond you would help, but you shouldn't have done it."

Erestor took another step back, his foot slipping on blood and broken glass. "Who are you? You are not Glorfindel."

The not-Glorfindel straightened in the seat, lifting a bloodied hand to throw back golden hair. It had been Glorfindel before, but it wasn't now…the familiar face of the Lady of Imladris stared back at him, gaping cuts that should be bleeding decorating her pale cheeks. She smiled eerily and extended a hand to him, her white blood-stained nightgown shifting about her gaunt shoulders.

The spiders were there again, and advancing once more upon them.

"This is not real," Erestor said, but he had known that before Glorfindel had laughed the first time.

"It is all real," whispered Celebrían, her chapped lips cracking into a terrible grin. "See the horrors of the world, what I dream of nightly."

They weren't in the kitchen anymore – it was a forest that surrounded them now, dark tree limbs reaching eerily over their heads. Celebrían was still in the chair, her skin becoming transparent and whitening. A spider, crawling on her shoulder, fell through her body and hit the rotten leaves on the ground below. It split into a multitude of spiders and rushed at Erestor, but he couldn't move.

"You see," breathed Celebrían, giggling hysterically and throwing her fading arms out, "this is where I am."

"You were not attacked in a forest." Erestor could feel tiny furry legs tapping at his feet as the spiders reached him and started climbing.

"No." Celebrían leaned toward him, and her face vanished before his eyes, but he could still hear her amused voice. "No, it's where you _were_. Remember the attack? The arrow in her side, and her desperate pleas for them to spare you? The rescue that came later, too late?"

A delicate wind swept around him, and he remembered, but he spoke not. He felt the first bite on his ankle, and more spiders clawed at his robes to climb. A presence tickled at his ear, as though someone stood just behind him, and he heard her voice once more.

"After all… _none of it is real_." Then she was gone, a dancing ghost among the trees, and he was left alone amid the spiders. They climbed his shoulders, snapped bites along his neck, and scrambled up into his hair. He couldn't move, and when they reached his face, he already wasn't able to breathe.

Then they swarmed into his mouth and his nose and he knew no more.

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 **In hindsight, I realize this is rather creepy. I should have written something funny for you. *facepalms***

 **I also probably shouldn't have posted this if I knew whether I was going to finish it or not. Should I continue? What in the world actually happened? Is it weird that I have no idea what is happening here, besides that he's probably not 'conscious'?**

 **I really need to go to bed. This is what happens when one is sleeping, on average, five hours or less a night. Crazy stories happen, that's what.**

 **I hope you enjoyed thy present, thou most wonderful Lin!**


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